


The Prancing Steed

by Tiofrean



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A pinch of jealous Aragorn, A touch of sassy Faramir, Aragorn is a Drama Queen, Arwen Sailed Away, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, Injury, M/M, Post-War of the Ring, Someone Help Them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 16:58:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19380928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: When Aragorn is injured and has to stay in bed, he makes a few discoveries about his relationship with his steward... Or rather, about the relationship he wants to have with him. Faramir, in the meantime, tries to keep the kingdom standing and help in Aragorn's healing...Someone help those idiots.





	The Prancing Steed

**Author's Note:**

> A little bit of a fic that grew bigger than I had expected it to do at first. But, here it is, betaed by my wonderful MermaidSheenaz <3  
> Enjoy!

The War of the Ring was won, the dead buried and the injured healed. The cities were still going through restoration, new laws were established and the old were changed, and it looked like now, seven months after Frodo had destroyed the ring, the world was slowly becoming peaceful again. 

Faramir smiled - he had done this silent recounting of events a few times in the passing week. He still had trouble believing that they had won and even gained a king, and he - a friend. The road to friendship between him and King Elessar had been almost too smooth. It was as if some unknown force had pushed them both together and guided them from day one. Ever since he had woken up in the House of Healing, since he had gazed into those wise, grey eyes full of compassion, Faramir knew he would follow this man anywhere he went. 

_Which seemingly involved going out for a ride in the icy, billowing wind that autumn always brought with it._

Faramir sighed, knocking on the heavy door, the guards posed outside not even deigning him with a glance. When Aragorn had proposed going out, Faramir had laughed heartily. His laughter had lasted a few long moments, until the reality of his king’s proposal had finally hit him - Aragorn had been serious. What could possibly possess a man to go out willingly in such a harsh weather, Faramir had not known then, and did not know still. But, here he was, standing in front of his king’s chambers, knocking on the heavy wood. 

“Come in!” Elessar called from the other side, and Faramir pushed the door open, stepping inside quickly not to cause unnecessary drafts. He walked in and stopped, looking around, trying to find their ruler.  
“Aragorn?” The name did not sound so alien on his lips anymore, not after the king himself had pressed Faramir to use it so insistently for the past few months. 

_I may be your king, but when we are alone, my dear friend, you should call me by my name. I do have it, you know? I was not born as King Elessar._

The steward smiled, remembering the evening when Aragorn had said that. They were both drinking heavily, celebrating the first evening in the citadel not filled with mourning laments after the dead. The king had certainly been drunk enough to forget about it on the next morning, but somehow he did not, and Faramir had to adjust his vocabulary according to his king’s wishes. And so, he had left the titles for official meetings, speaking them with flourish fitting their wonderful king, while in private, he took silent delight in calling Aragorn by his name. It made him feel closer to him somehow, more connected, and it suited his longing heart well. 

“There you are!” Aragorn’s voice reached him, and Faramir shook himself out of his thoughts, turning his head to glance in the direction his king’s voice had come from. _Glance,_ because Faramir hurriedly turned his head the other way, trying hard not to put his hand in front of his eyes for good measure.  
“My lord,” he said, feeling the need to use the title, if only to remind Aragorn about his position. “Could you kindly put something on, please?” He asked, hoping he did not sound as affected as he felt. The footsteps paused, Aragorn’s confusion clearly getting the better of him.  
“Is something the matter?” He asked innocently, and Faramir bit his tongue briefly to stop any untoward words from escaping. “Come now, Faramir,” Aragorn said, chuckling, starting to move once more. “You and I were both rangers, it is not like you have not been without clothes among men before,” he continued, making his way through the room. 

When the footsteps sounded to his right, indicating Aragorn’s position near the wardrobe, Faramir risked a very brief glance in that direction. He had judged the distance right - his king was, in fact, browsing through his clothes in the wardrobe. He stood there, gloriously naked, his hair in slight disarray, muscles shifting under skin displayed in the glow coming from the big windows behind him. He was beautiful, there and then, and _always._ Lean chest, tender skin hiding deadly power, ribs expanding with every breath he took, his waist narrowing down until hips flared out again slightly, and a trail of dark hair flowing down to...

“I have,” Faramir answered Aragorn’s previous statement hurriedly, swallowing hard when he discovered the sudden raspiness in his voice.  
“Ha! I knew it!”  
“But I have not _paraded_ around without a stitch of clothing to cover myself. Especially _not_ if I had guests,” Faramir went on, remembering rushed baths in cold streams of Emyn Arnen. He tried to focus on the _cold_ aspect especially, because the picture his lord painted in that moment was far too delicious and was making him feel too hot in his riding gear.  
“‘Tis a shame,” Aragorn said, turning to him, one hand holding a pair of breeches and a wrinkled shirt. Faramir hurriedly looked ahead, hoping his gaze had not lingered too long on the royal figure. He chose instead to try and think up a reason why Aragorn’s shirt was all wrinkled. They had maids to deal w… 

“In any case, I do not have anything you do not already possess,” Aragorn continued, closing the wardrobe and - judging by the rustling of fabric - dressing himself. Faramir shook his head distractedly. _You. I do not have you,_ his mind told him, and the steward bit his tongue. Hard.  
“I dare say that your body is far leaner than mine,” Faramir muttered, hoping his cheeks were not as red as he feared they were. Aragorn hummed.  
“Are you implying I am skinny?” The king huffed out, laughter evident in his voice. Somehow it flew over Faramir’s head completely.  
“By no means. Only that I am more stocky.”  
“Stocky?” Aragorn laughed. “No, my dear Faramir. It is just that not everyone has an archer’s shoulders.”  
“Or a swordsman’s legs,” Faramir mumbled, immediately feeling the need to slap himself. The rustling paused for a longer moment, and the room fell so silent, Faramir could hear his own heartbeat. 

He had never been so glad in his life to hear the tell-tale stomping sounds which announced that Aragorn was pulling on his boots. A few seconds later, those sounds, too, went quiet.  
“Alright, how do I look?” The king asked, and Faramir finally unglued his gaze from the wooden floor through which he had been staring holes for the past few minutes. He looked up, seeing Aragorn standing a few steps away, his hands held out, a wild grin stretching his lips.  
“You look…” Faramir could not even finish the sentence. Aragorn’s smile widened.  
“Fantastic? Splendid?”  
“...like a beggar,” the steward finally choked out, frowning.  
“Great!” Aragorn jumped up, clapping his hands loudly, before he swirled around to grab Andúril. Faramir just stood there and stared, taking in Aragorn’s old ranger garb. It was probably barely holding itself together, the cape was bearing a few visible holes, and… _dear lord, was it dried mud?_  

“Aragorn… you really do not need to wear these rags. You are the king, you should dress more appropriately…” Faramir felt terribly overdressed in comparison, to tell the truth. Even if his riding gear was not the newest in his own wardrobe, it still bore the marks of Gondor, etched all over the front of his vest in silvery thread. The king attached the sword to his belt and looked at him quizzically.  
“Whatever for?” He asked, sounding genuinely confused. “We can get dirty out there, there is no point in making the clothes all filthy.”  
“Whatever you say, my king,” Faramir grumbled, eyeing Aragorn. The man smiled again, then strode out, pulling his hood on. 

And that was Aragorn, really. If it had not been for Andúril at his hip and the silvery glint of the Ring of Barahir on his hand, half of the citadel staff would not recognize him on his day off. Looking wearily at the crown resting on the desk - placed on the black, velvety cushion Faramir had insisted on - the steward sighed and exited the royal bedchamber, closing the door with a loud squeak of the old hinges. 

 

-&-

 

The wind was, indeed, icy, just like they had thought, not that it fazed Aragorn in the slightest. It was blowing relentlessly, sometimes strongly enough to threaten their position on horses. They had taken Hasufel and Arod with them, the two steeds that fell into their care after the War of the Ring. They were fine horses and, even if Elessar would have preferred to ride Brego instead, he knew that his old friend needed some more rest after their last stroll together. 

Well, stroll… Faramir had named it ‘A mad dash across the Pelennor Fields’, and, Aragorn reckoned, somehow it had been just that. It would have been perfectly fine, had it not been for Brego misstepping while jumping over a bush and injuring his leg. As a result, the stable boys had declared him unfit for riding for the foreseeable future, and the king had not opposed to that. He had felt fairly guilty over steering Brego in the wrong direction, he still _did,_ so when he had climbed upon Hasufel, he had not uttered the smallest of complaints. 

“Why are we out here, in this forsaken weather?” Faramir asked next to him, and Aragorn grinned, looking at him.  
_“Forsaken?_ But the day is beautiful! Look around us! The sun is shining brightly, the grass is growing peacefully!” The king exclaimed, waving his hand around. Faramir glanced to the side, an expression of mock surprise all over his face.  
“By the Valar! Sire, you are right! ‘Tis a new color of the nature, the _dying_ brown, brought forth by the impending autumn chills!” He snarked, looking back at his king. “Truly, Aragorn, I do understand your need to get out of the citadel every once in a while, but I am not so sure that today is a good day for a horse ride,” he went on, shaking his head.  
“Oh, where is your sense of adventure, _ranger?”_ The king asked, the grin still visible. A few moments later, his face sombered, however. 

“I feel it calling to me sometimes, you know?” Aragorn muttered, raising his gaze to stare into the distance. “The wild, the forests. I have been a ranger for my whole life, it is not easy to break that track. And when I find myself with a day free of my duties as a king, I cannot help but answer it,” he said wistfully, glancing at his steward. “Thank you for clearing my schedule, my dear friend. It may be so that I was born to be here, but I do need some time to put the crown aside.” 

Faramir could only nod back at him in recognition, smiling softly himself. He knew that well, after all. It had been in the early weeks of their acquaintance that he had noticed Aragorn getting restless inside the citadel. He had grabbed his king’s notebook, crossed some meetings out and rescheduled a few others, and had surprised Aragorn with a day out filled with sword practice and long strolls in Minas Tirith’s gardens. It had been hard keeping the whole royal ensemble away from them - the Captain of the Royal Guard being the hardest to keep at an arm’s length - but Aragorn had stomped his foot and declared that, had he not been left alone with his steward, he would fire all of them on the spot, so that they would not interrupt him. 

It had resulted in a very displeased look from Captain Beregond, but Faramir had to admit, it had turned out well. They were free to roam Pelennor, or rather, Aragorn was free to roam Pelennor, for Faramir had always had a bit more freedom in that regard. His king’s liberty came with a price, though, and that price was Faramir being with him at all times when the White Company was absent. 

And that suited Faramir just fine. 

He turned his head to the side and studied Aragorn’s profile silently. His king indeed seemed more relaxed here, without the weight of the whole realm placed upon his shoulders. Aragorn had his eyes closed, his hair in disarray, the hood hanging behind him after being blown off by the winds. There was a small, serene smile on his face, almost as if he was dreaming of an incredibly pleasant story, or listening to a very intricate song. Here, in that moment, Faramir saw the hidden beauty of their king - not the eyes glinting with happiness or igniting with courage, not the noble features as if he was a living statue of the past kings. Now, it was Aragorn’s very _soul_ encompassing his whole being, enjoying such a simple horseback ride, delighting in the wind, however chilly it might be. 

The steward bit his lip, facing forward again. He felt incredibly humble to be allowed to witness that moment of nakedness from his king - _his friend_ \- far more intimate than Aragorn’s antics in the morning had been. Faramir knew he had a soft spot for him, that the love he felt was reaching further than his post justified. But, Aragorn was their king, a king long since considered lost and then miraculously returned - how could he not love him with all his being? 

“What is on your mind, dear friend?” Aragorn’s voice reached him, and Faramir glanced to the side again, only to find Aragorn watching him with interest.  
“Nothing, really. I was merely thinking how lucky we are that we have you as our king,” he said, wincing when another gush of cold air hit him square in the chest. He could hear Aragorn’s low chuckle.  
“I do think you could have found someone more suited for this role.”  
“I disagree. You were meant to sit on the throne, Aragorn,” Faramir argued, frowning.  
“That I know…” Elessar muttered quietly, then louder he added, “but what sort of a king thinks of escaping his duties as soon as he sets his feet inside his castle?”  
“A good king, I dare say,” the steward retorted. “Only a fool does not see the gravity of a king’s rule. And you are no fool, Aragorn. You know well the responsibilities that come with your titles. ‘Tis a good thing!”  
“Perhaps you are right,” the king murmured, turning his head to look straight ahead. 

“For now, though, the day is still young and we have a bit more ground to cover. Come on!” And with that, Aragorn rode off, leaving his steward to follow. Shaking his head, fighting a smile, Faramir went after him, doing his best to keep up. 

 

-&-

 

Hasufel was a mighty steed, very loyal and very intelligent. He had his shortcomings, but in general, he was a very trusted animal. It came as a big surprise then, when he almost walked into a snake on their way back to citadel a few hours later. 

Aragorn would have blamed himself for that accident, too, had he had any time to think. It was his job to steer the horse into the right direction, after all, not to daydream about his steward and to think up scenarios that had no chance at coming true. His mind had been so busy assessing the exact color of Faramir’s wind-swept hair that he had completely ignored the slightly marshier terrain they had ridden on. It was no surprise really that there were snakes sliding between the tall grass. 

It all happened so quickly, that Aragorn barely had time to shout for Faramir - for help or to warn him and save him some injuries, he did not know. One moment he was seated atop Hasufel and in the next, he was flying down, hitting the ground with a sickening crunch of something inside him. The world around him dimmed slightly, spinning suspiciously, and he blinked up at the suddenly starry sky, wondering what exactly happened. It did not last long - soon, the stars disappeared and Faramir’s face came into view. He was shouting something frantically, but Aragorn could not recognize the words. He smiled, however, glad that his friend was well enough to show a mix of fear and relief on his face. It was good, Aragorn reckoned, those were not emotions easy to feel, and if Faramir _was_ feeling them, then he was well enough to do so. Maybe he did not encounter that snake…

 

-&-

 

When Aragorn woke up suddenly, it was to his head pounding, and to Faramir’s gentle voice drifting around him. Noises from the background filtered in slowly, almost through a haze, and Aragorn frowned, licking his dry lips. He forced his eyes open, having no recollection as to when he had closed them, squinting in the dim light when he spotted the ornate ceiling of the citadel’s chambers hanging above him. 

The House of Healing. _Of course._

“You need to wake up…” Faramir mumbled, somewhere to his right, and Aragorn frowned, looking that way, trying hard to ignore the ache that had taken residence in his head. “I have promised to serve you, my king, you cannot leave your steward like this… The White City is not yet restored fully, the people had not yet celebrated their first Yule under their new king… please, Sire, wake up,” Faramir went on, his voice so low only Aragorn could hear it. There was a strange tone to it, a tone of longing that brought Imladris immediately to Aragorn’s mind. He did not have enough strength to dwell on it, however.

“Must I remind you... that I do have a name?” The king whispered, watching as Faramir’s head jerked up, his eyes wide.  
“Aragorn!” Faramir gasped, staring at him. Aragorn could see that his eyes were misting over, and his frown deepened.  
“Faramir… What…” Talking was difficult, his throat seemed filled with sand. The steward shook his head quickly.  
“Do not speak. You fell off Hasufel, after a snake bit him,” Faramir explained hurriedly. Somehow, he must have read Aragorn’s expression - or his mind - and he reached over to a small table placed at his bedside and brought forth a cup of water. He fed it to Aragorn gently, one hand supporting his head, allowing a few small sips, before he was drawing away, sitting next to the bed again. 

The water was refreshing, and the king felt better instantly. The room finally came into better focus and he was able to look at Faramir properly.  
“Is he alright?” He asked, worried.  
“Is who alright?”  
_“Hasufel,”_ Elessar supplied, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a very injured king to be worrying over his horse. Faramir could not stop the bark of laughter that escaped him, more a nervous giggle than genuine mirth.  
“He is fine. The snake was not venomous, it only scared him.”  
“That is good,” Aragorn agreed, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them a few heartbeats later, Faramir was still staring at him. His position did not change in the slightest, but there were silvery trails glistening on his cheeks, and Aragorn automatically reached out to brush them away. 

“No, do not move!” Faramir jerked away, his hands coming to rest on Aragorn’s left shoulder, trying to keep him down. It did not help in the least, because he was already trying to raise. “The healers do not know yet if your shoulder is broken or only badly bruised!” The steward explained hastily, but not hastily enough to stop Aragorn from trying to lever himself up. When pain flared in his right arm and traveled all the way down his back, the king fell on the bed once more, his left hand coming up to clutch at his injured limb.  
“Yah, definitely broken,” he ground out through gritted teeth, wincing when the sharp pain refused to lessen even for a second. 

His first attempt at moving resulted in his whole body waking up and, to Aragorn’s dismay, hurting in many different places. His right leg throbbed dully, his hip felt as if an array of needles pierced through it, and his head protested by making the whole room spin once again. He was distinctly aware that Faramir was moving around him, adjusting the bed covers and pushing away the hair from his face, but only after a cool cloth had been placed upon his forehead did he open his eyes again. He blinked up at his steward, taking in the devastated expression he was wearing.  
“I am fine,” Elessar managed to mumble, attempting a smile.  
“Shush,” Faramir answered, sitting back, hands resting on top of the covers, right next to Aragorn’s hip. The king reached out, finding one of them, then wrapped his fingers around Faramir’s slender, archer’s wrist. 

Shortly before he fell asleep, he felt a tender kiss being placed upon his knuckles. 

 

-&-

 

“How long am I expected to stay here?” Aragorn demanded, his voice a mix of annoyance and incredulity. Faramir sighed, stomping down the urge to roll his eyes. 

It was the fourth day after the accident, and Elessar could barely move still. His right leg was improving, but only enough to allow for short trips to the bathroom and back to the bed. Thanks to that optimistic fact, he had been released from the House of Healing, but immediately ushered into his own bedchambers. Aragorn’s shoulder, however, presented a very different story. 

The healers were not sure which part of it was broken exactly, but they had agreed that it was one of the smaller bones hiding beneath muscles. Aragorn had supported this statement, but not before he had tried to move it on a few separate occasions, just to fail miserably. It had been with a very displeased and - somehow - beaten up look that he had acquiesced to the need of having his whole arm wrapped in bandage. It had been placed close to his body, cradled against his chest, and secured with the softest wrappings the healers could find. 

_All on Faramir’s insistence, but their king did not have to know that._

“You are unwell yet, you need to rest,” he reminded Aragorn, provoking a decidedly annoyed huff. Faramir was sure that, had he been able to, Aragorn would have crossed his arms in front of his chest.  
“I am going to perish here, in this bed…” the king sighed dramatically, plopping back down on the pillows.  
“I certainly hope not, that would be a terrible loss for the whole realm,” the steward replied, collecting letters he had been reading to Aragorn to pass the time. The missives came from all over Gondor, sometimes from Rohan, too, and while they rarely spoke of urgent matters, they were serious enough to keep the king in his royal mindset.  
“The realm, the realm… It is a surprise _the realm_ survived this long without a king, when you put matters that way,” Aragorn said, burrowing himself deeper between the pillows. Hearing that, Faramir turned sharply to face him, an unreadable expression all over his handsome face.  
“It is a surprise, indeed,” he said levelly, and Aragorn promptly shut his mouth. 

Maybe he had gone too far? After all, Faramir had lost his whole family in the war, his family that had been ruling Gondor for the past generations. The White City was still standing, the realm had not collapsed, and talking of such things was doing the House of Stewards a great disservice.  
“Forgive me,” Aragorn said, lowering his gaze. “That was uncalled for.”  
“‘Tis alright,” Faramir was quick to reassure him. “But, since you are here and somebody needs to rule the kingdom, I have to excuse myself. There is an urgent council meeting soon that I must attend.”  
“Oh fine. Leave your king alone to die of boredom!” Aragorn said, only half-jokingly, attempting to bring even the weakest of smiles to his steward’s lips.

It worked, somehow, and Faramir graced him with a dazzling grin.  
“Try not to die, _my king,_ you may yet be needed!” And with that, he exited the room, but not before there was a knock on the door and one of the maids asked permission to enter.

Aragorn had no trouble recognizing her - it was one of the daughters of their chief cook, her name was Idris, and she was one of the gentlest beings he had seen in the whole of Middle-earth. She curtsied shyly entering the room, then asked politely whether she could water the plants on the balcony and dust the desk, as was in her duties.  
“Do not stop yourself on my account,” Aragorn replied, rubbing his forehead. His head had stopped hurting constantly sometime during the second day after the accident, but there were occasional stabs of pain still present. Especially when he had been quarreling with Faramir. 

“Can I be of help somehow, my lord?” Idris asked, eyeing him from the other end of the room, before she padded softly to stand next to the bed. She had worry written all over her delicate features, and Aragorn grimaced, not keen on making another person trouble themselves because of him.  
“I think I need to stop arguing with Faramir… it does not serve me well,” Aragorn muttered under his breath.  
“I reckon you should,” Idris agreed, and the king looked up at her, surprised. She bowed her head, knowing she had spoken out of turn, but Aragorn just chuckled. He really liked to think that people around him would take none of him being too mighty for his own good - it never bode well when the ruling party was surrounded with eager puppies, ready to please. 

“Forgive me, Sire,” she said softly, after the silence started to become noticeable. Aragorn laughed aloud this time, shaking his head.  
“It is alright, Idris. You are a friend of Faramir’s, are you not?” He asked, happy to have someone to talk to. The last few days were filled with him mostly being left alone, save for the few hours when Faramir was not busy running the kingdom in his stead.  
“Yes, my lord. We have been friends since I was a young lass. He taught me how to fight,” she admitted, looking up slowly, hesitantly. Aragorn nodded - _of course Faramir had taught her how to fight. He was a generous friend, always making sure people around him were safe and well._

“Tell me about him…” Aragorn prompted, inclining his head to the side. The girl smiled, bowing a bit.  
“He is one of the bravest men I know. He once rode out to defend Osgiliath with only a handful of his rangers… It had ended badly, as you might have heard,” she said, looking at him expectantly. Aragorn frowned.  
“No, I have not,” he admitted. There had been so much going on during the war, and afterwards, there had been no time to reminiscence upon the past, not with so many urgent matters hitting them from all angles. Idris’ eyes widened in surprise.  
“My king, lord Denethor had gone mad shortly before the final battle happened. He had sent lord Faramir to certain death and was very displeased when he returned wounded but alive. He tried to burn him on a stake, along with himself,” the girl recounted, not heeding Aragorn’s increasingly shocked expression. 

“He tried to _what?” By Valar! What madness had his sweet Faramir been subjected to?_  
“Yes, Sire. We are very fortunate that Mithrandir intervened in time and, together with Pippin, they saved him.”  
“Mithrandir never told me of it either…” Elessar muttered to himself, frowning. His wonderful, gentle-hearted Faramir…  
“Lord Faramir did not wish it to be known by everyone. He does not like to speak of the madness of his father,” she explained, and Aragorn nodded. And here he was, complaining, because he had to lie in a comfortable bed for a few days!  
“You are right, Idris. I should not argue with him so,” he agreed in a low voice.  
“He loves you, my king,” she said, her words equally quiet. “I have never seen him as devastated as when he brought you back to the citadel four days ago, my king.” 

At that, Aragorn’s eyebrows shot up. He hardly recalled anything concerning the accident before his waking up in the House of Healing.  
“I do not remember a thing from that time,” he said, rather to himself, but Idris was more than eager to fill in the blank spots.  
“He had ridden in on Arod, with you seated in front of him. We could barely keep him away, even when we transported you to the healers. The Captain gave him a stern talking-to, but he barely listened, so focused was he on you, Sire,” she said, smiling softly. “Then, he would sit at your bedside and wait for you to wake up, and no amount of pleading would get him away. We were concerned for a moment, because he refused to eat or sleep, waving away our efforts at making sure that he was uninjured also.” 

 _His good, kind steward…_ Aragorn knew that he owed him an apology for being so intolerable for the past couple of days. And a huge thank you. 

“Thank you for telling me that, Idris,” Aragorn smiled, nodding at the girl. She curtsied again, still standing in the same spot.  
“Can I return to my duties?”  
“Of course! Go, do what you have to!” The king shooed her off with his left hand, frowning at the sudden inflow of information about Faramir he had received. He had a lot to think about, indeed. 

 

-&-

 

“I owe you my sincere apologies!” Aragorn called out to his steward, as soon as Faramir stepped over the threshold of his chambers later in the evening. The young man paused, taken aback, before he gingerly closed the door behind himself. He turned back to Elessar, eyeing him carefully.  
“Whatever for?” He asked, frowning.  
“I have been an idiot, Faramir, and a blundering one at that,” Aragorn explained, without really explaining anything. The steward walked to the bed and sat down on the edge of it. One of his hands traveled to Aragorn’s forehead, cool fingers touching his brow delicately.  
“Is your head getting worse?” He asked, worried, to which Aragorn scoffed.  
“Nothing of the sort! I believe it is improving, actually,” the king stated, attempting a smile.  
“Why the apologies, then? You have done nothing worth apologizing for, Aragorn,” Faramir said, taking his hand away slowly. The king shook his head.  
“On the contrary, my dear friend. I have been a selfish fool, going on complaining while you must be tired running all the meetings in my absence.” 

Faramir stared at him for a long moment, then sighed heavily, looking down at the bedcovers.  
“It is nothing, ‘tis just my duty,” he reminded his king, but Aragorn shook his head.  
“No. Keeping the kingdom from collapsing while I am not fit to rule may be one of your duties, but it is not all you are doing, is it?” Aragorn levered himself up on one hand, sitting a bit straighter. “Idris told me that the council meeting had ended a few hours ago, and yet here you are, still a little out of breath, as if you had been constantly running after you have closed the doors to the great hall,” the king observed. “I do not want you exhausting yourself on things that are not worth it.”  
“Someone had to arrange the rooms for the guests,” Faramir argued, glancing at his king. Aragorn looked very confused indeed.  
“Guests? What guests do you speak of?”  
“Legolas, Gimli… Even Éomer and Éowyn are coming,” the steward listed, to Aragorn’s great surprise. Seeing the shock written all over his liege’s face, Faramir explained. 

“The news of your accident had reached our neighbors. They are coming to wish you a happy recovery and to make sure there is nothing else they can do to help,” he finished, shrugging.  
“And you had to be the one to prepare the rooms? We have staff for that, you know?”  
“Yes,” Faramir replied, “but someone needs to direct the maids and inform the cooks. Besides, it is not a difficult chore, just taking a lot of time to organize everything…” he trailed off, taking in the displeased and somehow resigned look Aragorn was wearing. 

Moving closer, Faramir caught his king’s left hand, resting on his lap, grabbing it gently but firmly.  
“You need not worry, I do yet possess enough strength to do all that is required of me,” he said earnestly. Aragorn looked at him, swallowing heavily before he replied.  
“I just do not like the idea of you running yourself into an early grave on my account.” His voice was soft, the barest of whispers, but Faramir heard it nevertheless.  
“Why? I am the steward, am I not?”  
“Yes. But first and foremost, you are my friend, and I do care about your well-being.” 

Finding no answer to that, Faramir lowered his eyes, his gaze landing on their joined hands. With a quick move, he bent down and brought them up, placing a gentle kiss on Aragorn’s knuckles. Then, before he would lose his composure and do something he would later regret, he let it go and got up, walking around the room. He stoked the fire a bit, adjusted the curtains in the big windows, glancing through them while he had a chance.  
“The night is beautiful today,” he commented, in lieu of their earlier conversation. And it really was, the stars were shining brightly, the sky was devoid of any clouds. Even the wind seemed to have stopped and the - already bare - trees ceased their constant shaking.  
“Is it?” Aragorn’s voice reached him, followed by a rustling of heavy fabric. 

Before the steward had a chance to connect the sounds with what Aragorn might be doing, the king was raising himself up and gingerly getting out of bed, his steps unsure when his leg protested the movement with a dull pain shooting up from his calf to his thigh.  
“Aragorn!” Faramir was with him in an instant, arms wrapping protectively around his slender frame to cushion the inevitable fall that would happen, had he left his king to his own devices. Aragorn grinned at him, but there was an edge to his smile, an edge that spoke of exactly how much that attempt cost him. He was nothing if not determined, however, and despite Faramir’s loudly stated protests, he managed to make his way to the door to the balcony. Gazing through the clear glass, Aragorn sighed wistfully.  
“It is indeed a beautiful night,” he confirmed, tearing his eyes away only for a moment, to glance at his steward. Faramir merely nodded, concerned more with the way Aragorn’s figure was swaying in place, muscles working hard to keep him standing upright. 

They stood like this for a longer moment, until Aragorn was forced to place his left hand against the window pane for balance. At this point, Faramir was ready to just grab him and carry him back to the bed, Aragorn’s dignity and anger be damned.  
“You should sit down, I think,” he muttered, hoping he would not have to resort to hauling his king up into his arms. But Aragorn shook his head.  
“Not yet. A little longer,” he pressed on stubbornly.  
“You are not yet fully recovered, you know you need to rest, you are a healer yourself!” The steward tried to reason, but was cut short by the forlorn look Aragorn gave him. 

“How am I supposed to be a king if I cannot walk by myself?” He asked, turning his head to the side, his gaze landing on Andúril, resting on a little table next to the bed. “I cannot lift my hand, let alone grab my sword… How am I supposed to rule Gondor?” _How am I supposed to impress you?_

Surprised at his own thoughts, Aragorn bit his tongue and lowered his gaze, blinking blearily at his own feet. He had once been in a similar mindset, his heart yearning to impress the person he loved. He had been a young lad then, helplessly infatuated with Arwen Undómiel, the daughter of the lord who had taken him under his wing. The Elves had sailed away, taking Arwen with them, however, and Aragorn had never thought he would find this feeling again deep within himself. And yet, here he was, recognizing it for what it meant - he was in love with his steward, and no amount of him convincing himself otherwise would change that. He had thought Faramir to be his loyal friend, had regarded him highly, but he had never suspected that he would be yearning to wrap his arms around the young man for reasons different than keeping himself on his feet. 

“Aragorn?” Faramir asked softly, and the king inclined his head, a mute signal that he was listening. “Let us get you back to bed, ay?” Again, a silent nod, Aragorn’s mind being too busy picking apart his latest revelation. He let himself be steered and forced himself to release Faramir once they reached the bed. 

He was in trouble… he was in so much trouble. 

 

-&-

 

Sleep eluded Aragorn on that night. His brain was tearing itself to pieces trying to solve the puzzle of his current position. When he let himself analyze the situation, it was really not so surprising that he had fallen in love with Faramir. The man was kind and well-mannered, with a big heart and wits quick enough to astonish even Mithrandir himself. He was also handsome, and, while Aragorn had not looked upon other men in that way for a long time, he had to admit that the prospect of laying his hands on his steward’s body sounded very delicious. He had had a few encounters in his early ranger days, but they were more about relieving tension than about desire. Faramir, though? Aragorn was sure he could fall on his knees in worship, if his right knee was still working properly. 

But, as it was wont, reality crashed into him a few hours before dawn. Faramir, for all his tenderness and emotions concerning Aragorn, was probably only doing his duty as the Steward of Gondor. He loved the king, nothing less, nothing more, and Aragorn would have to live with it somehow. Especially that Éowyn was coming to Minas Tirith soon - Elessar was well aware that the two of them had bonded in the House of Healing while he had been out, shouting at the Black Gate. Maybe that was the reason Faramir had been busying himself with the preparations for their guests’ arrival? Éowyn was a very fine lady, a Shieldmaiden of Rohan, and Aragorn had no trouble picturing her at Faramir’s side. 

Except, perhaps, for the way his heart ached thinking about it. 

When the morning finally came, Elessar was ready to jump out of the bed - and, preferably, out of the nearest window. All his nightly analysis had brought him was despair caused by yesterday’s revelations, and he was not sure as to what he should do. He could not just go and burden Faramir with the full spectrum of his feelings, lest he lose a friend, in case it was something his steward just could not do. Trapped in the bed as he was, Aragorn was slowly falling down into the spiral of gloom once again, when the object of his thoughts opened the door to his chambers after the briefest of knocks. 

“Good morn-” Faramir’s words were abruptly stopped when his gaze fell upon his king. Immediately, he was striding into the room, placing himself on the edge of the bed and grabbing Aragorn’s hand quickly, worry etched deeply on his handsome features.  
“Are you in pain? Has your state worsened? Should I call for the healers?” He asked, the questions so fast they stuck one to another. Aragorn shook his head, confused.  
“No, no, I am quite well…” he said, somehow managing a smile. Going by Faramir’s reluctant expression, he did not believe him one bit. And who would? Aragorn was well aware that after a night of constant shifting around, with the shoulder bothering him and the sleep stubbornly not coming, he looked like someone who had risen from the dead. 

“I merely had a restless night, that it all,” he said, hoping to placate his steward. Faramir’s frown only deepened.  
“You should have called for me!” He stated, as if Aragorn would ever do such a thing as to disturb his steward’s sleep just because his own was escaping him. “Was it your shoulder?” The young man went on, his gaze sliding to the injured limb, eyes assessing. “I could have called for the healers, give you something for the pain…”  
“My dear friend,” Aragorn stopped him. “I doubt that the healers would have found an appropriate herb for my condition,” he said levelly, “but I thank you for your concern.” 

Now Faramir really looked worried, and Aragorn hated it. He attempted to change the topic.  
“What are you doing here at this early hour, though? Do you not have a meeting with the guests later on?” _Why are you sitting here with me, instead of sleeping in late, my dear Faramir?_ The steward looked at the window, taking in the early sunset and the glow flooding the room. His eyebrows shot up in surprise, almost as if in shock at discovering just how early the hour was. He shrugged.  
“I merely wanted to spend some time with you, knowing you are bound to get bored soon… There is a lot to prepare for the evening dinner and I will not be able to see you until the guests arrive, probably,” Faramir explained gently, his eyes staring at Aragorn - _staring right into him._  
“Do not concern yourself with me, you will have a lady to entertain this evening, after all,” Aragorn said, not able to keep the edge out of his voice.  
“What?”  
“No, nothing,” he amended, shaking his head, “do not listen to this old fool who had too little sleep and is talking in riddles. Go, do what you have to do,” he prompted, stomping down the urge to shoo Faramir away just like he had done with Idris the day before. 

Looking utterly confused, Faramir stood up and, throwing one last look Aragorn’s way, walked out of the room. The king remained in his bed, wondering at the storm raging inside of him.

 

-&- 

 

When they saw each other again, it was later that day. The sun was setting and making Aragorn squint his eyes at the glow flooding the room - he was ready to get up and, risking further injury to his leg, close the blinds tightly. Thankfully, before he could as much as move a muscle, Faramir appeared inside his bedchamber.

The steward pushed his head in through the barely opened door, smiled at him, and somehow, the light did not bother Aragorn anymore. Instead, his thoughts focused on the wild mane of auburn hair his fingers itched to touch.  
“The guests have arrived and want to see you,” Faramir announced and, before he could add anything else, a well-known voice sounded from somewhere behind him.  
“For Eru’s sake, let us in, Aragorn!” 

Aragorn grinned, nodding at his steward to let the company in. When they spilled into his room, he could not believe just how many of them were there. Not only Legolas - who had been the one speaking - but also Gimli, Éomer and Éowyn, together with Pippin and Merry. Even Mithrandir had come, smiling softly at him, leaning on his staff, a happy twinkle present in his eyes.  
“How are you feeling?” Merry asked, almost at the same time when Pippin shouted out a loud “Aragorn! We’ve missed you!” 

Éowyn rolled her eyes at them fondly, grinning from ear to ear, while Éomer sighed in mock-annoyance.  
“I have had no idea how it was to keep those two within bounds,” he muttered, watching as the Hobbits jumped on the bed next to Aragorn and started to list all the things that had happened in the Shire in the past half a year. The king laughed with them, nodding to everything they said, and even got a word or two edgewise, astonishing Éomer. 

“I truly do not know how he does that,” the King of Rohan said, shaking his head. Legolas chuckled.  
“We have spent many days together, Aragorn knows well how to handle kids… _and_ Hobbits,” he concluded, giving Elessar a soft look.  
“Had he not known, I would have discouraged him from joining the Fellowship of the Ring,” Gandalf added, watching the scene. Speaking over the excited voices of Merry and Pippin, he addressed Aragorn. “How does your arm fare, Elessar? Or your leg, for that matter?” 

Hearing that, Aragorn paused his animated talk with the Hobbits and looked up at the wizard.  
“I am better. Not yet fit for the battle, but I shall be there if duty calls,” he assured, making Legolas chuckle.  
“The only fight you need to be doing now is the wordsmithing in the council, is it not so, Faramir?” The Elf turned to the young steward, who was by then standing on the side, taking in the whole exchange with wide eyes and a slightly amused expression upon his face.  
“For now, yes, but you must remember that the peace with Harad is not yet established,” Faramir reminded him, sighing. “It is yet feasible that we may have to ride out to battle to secure the lands,” he added, his gaze going back to his king instinctively. 

He did not want Aragorn to take part in any more battles. He did not see _himself_ in that role, either, to be completely honest, but, if the need arose, he would be there in the first line, fighting for Gondor and for his king. Aragorn, however? He had had far too many battles to last him a lifetime and, no matter his earlier engrossment in sparrings, Faramir did not wish to see him fighting for his life during a war. Not _anymore,_ in any case. He knew it was probably inevitable, but that did not mean that he had to like the idea. 

“Do not worry, Faramir,” Legolas said, “your friends will be there, too, if the need arises.” Before the steward could reply to that, the Hobbits paused, looking at the gathered with expectation evident on their faces.  
“Those friends are, however, pretty hungry right now,” Pippin said. Merry nodded.  
“And they were promised a feast!” He reminded, focusing his gaze on Faramir, waiting. The steward laughed.  
“Alright, alright!” He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Off you go then, to the dining hall! I will help the king and we shall be there shortly,” he said, attempting to shoo them away.

It seemed that, while the Hobbits were not very keen on moving in general, hearing even the vaguest notion of food gave them a surprising amount of speed. Before Faramir was really done speaking the sentence, they were already up and running, almost tripping over their feet in their haste to get to the door. Éowyn rolled her eyes again, but her grin spoke of fondness more than annoyance. Faramir ushered the others out, noticing that the princess lingered a bit. It did not escape Aragorn either, for he stared at the door long after she had disappeared on the other side of it. 

“So, what do you want to wear?” The steward asked, bringing Aragorn out of his thoughts.  
“Nothing,” Elessar answered, and Faramir frowned.  
“This may fly while in your private rooms, but I think it hardly appropriate to go to a feast naked,” he said, attempting to light the suddenly solemn mood the company had created with its absence. Aragorn shook his head.  
“Nothing, meaning I am not coming,” he clarified. Faramir stared at him, worry starting to slowly eat him on the inside. Aragorn must have noticed the troubled look his steward sported. 

“Oh, do not look so gloomy,” he said, his tone at odds with his expression - it was far too jovial to suit the somberness of his gaze. “It is merely my head making itself known again. I shall stay here and rest, chase away the pain,” he muttered, hoping Faramir would not require any further explanations. “Go, have a good time and give my sincere apologies for my absence at the table.” 

Confused, but not ready to start another quarrel, Faramir simply nodded and, cautiously, exited the room. 

 

-&-

 

The dinner was a small enterprise, but it was for the better, Faramir thought. He did not like huge feasts - they were too loud, there were too many people, and he rarely had time to enjoy himself. This, right then, was almost perfect… except for one little detail that cast a long shadow over the whole dinner. 

_King Elessar was not there._

It was not a usual occurrence for the ruler of the kingdom not to be present at the feast _in his own castle._ Faramir sighed, looking to the side, his eyes falling on the empty spot with longing. It was not right… _it was just not right._ And, what was worse, nobody even seemed to notice it any longer. All the guests had initially expressed their sadness, of course, but the feast had started and, as it was wont, it had carried on following its own path. The food had been served, the wine poured, and soon, everyone was talking animatedly, laughing and cheering, and telling stories of the past as well as the future. 

Faramir _hated_ it. 

The chair to his right, placed at the top of the table just like it had always been, was glaringly empty. Its owner and the rightful occupant was in his chambers, probably suffering from the mother of all headaches, and the steward felt very uneasy thinking about it. _He would much rather be with Aragorn now than sitting here, attempting a smile that did not reach his eyes._  

He could not do it, though. His post required him to remain at the table and force on a cheerful expression, even if only for the benefit of the guests. He was the Steward of Gondor and this was his duty, no matter how much he hated it right now. 

Besides, something was very wrong with their king. Aragorn’s usual high spirits had been nowhere to be seen in the past week and, ever since the accident had happened, his king looked more and more depressed. Faramir tried to blame it on the condition he was in - the injuries he had sustained were not a trifle, after all. But Elessar’s usually expressive eyes had dulled somehow, the fire in them no longer present like it had been before. He looked more serious, almost - and Faramir dreaded to even think about it - melancholic. It was almost as if, along with a broken and bruised bones, Aragorn had gotten a broken spirit in the package. 

“Faramir!” Legolas’ voice tore him out of his musings, and the steward jerked his head up, eyebrows raised in a silent question. “We were talking about recreating the forests of Ithilien… What say you to that?” The Elf asked, his eager eyes boring into the steward. Faramir frowned, not really into the conversation.  
“Which part of the forest do you speak of?”  
“The northern part of Henneth Annun,” Legolas replied, looking as if he tried hard not to roll his eyes. It seemed that the Elf had answered this question to somebody else a moment before and was utterly bored with repeating himself. Faramir nodded, half of his mind focusing on the layout of the lands he brought up in his memory, the other half attempting not to worry too much about Aragorn. 

He knew he was doomed to fail the latter. 

 

-&-

 

Aragorn had never made a bigger tactical mistake in his life. King Elessar, a renowned leader, a swordsman worth his weight in gold - or so the others had told him - had never been so wrong in his life. He had successfully defended Helm’s Deep, he had fought the Black Army of Mordor, he had ruled the biggest country in Middle-earth for over half a year now without any major mishaps, and yet, he failed to see the error in his judgement regarding spending the evening away from others. 

_A huge tactical mistake, indeed._

Normally, Faramir would have been here already, chatting up a storm, reporting of every new and interesting thing that had happened during another busy day. If there had been nothing of importance, he would just sit down and talk about anything, _everything,_ and Aragorn would not be left alone with his overactive imagination and his mood getting gloomier by the minute. 

He had tried to distract himself in the beginning - the headache he had used as an excuse had been just that… an _excuse._ His head was not hurting, his shoulder did not much change, and his leg was protesting his movements only slightly. But, even the slightest of protests meant that he would not be getting up anytime soon, and there was only a finite amount of things one could do while chained to their bed. 

He thought briefly about reading a book, but all the tomes that were present in his bedchambers were romance novels or history books, brought from the library by Faramir himself, and Aragorn would not focus enough to digest a single line from them knowing how they got there. The combination of his steward and romance stories was too heavy for his heart right now, so, Aragorn tried to occupy himself otherwise. He considered going back to the draft of the latest decree he had been working on prior to the accident - a most boring and mundane document concerning the trade of wood at Gondor’s eastern borders - but he did not feel up for that task yet. The quality of the document was not what made him reconsider, rather, his right hand was still bandaged to his chest and, with his movements restrained, it would be near impossible to write anything down. Drafting such papers in his mind just to jot them down later had never worked for Aragorn. 

Without anything engaging to keep his mind busy, Aragorn’s thoughts started to wander, and they arrived at the least convenient - and the most obvious - topic. _Faramir._ His steward was at the feast, probably bonding with Éowyn over a fine piece of rabbit and some of their best wine. 

 _Bonding with Éowyn…_ Aragorn cringed, thinking about it. It was not that he wanted to forbid his steward some happiness, and there was no better woman to bring him happiness than the Shieldmaiden of Rohan. It was just… _Aragorn would like to do it instead._ Why, oh why did she have to come here to the castle? Why not just Éomer? Why had they all come anyway? He was fine, he was doing better, there was no need to bow over his bedside as if he were to give up the ghost at any moment. Maybe there were some trade agreements to be spoken about? 

_But Faramir would have told him about that, would he not?_

“Damnit!” Elessar hissed, banging his left hand against the mattress. His right shoulder protested the movement of his body with a sharp sting, and he frowned, looking down at it. _An invalid for a king… what had his life become?_

Dragging his eyes from one book to another, lying on his desk and on the shelves, he desperately thought about something he could do to occupy his time. His gaze fell on his pipe, lying on the bedside table. With a sigh, he twisted around to take it, wincing when his leg let him know of the foolishness of his determination to move. Gritting his teeth, he managed to grab it, then dug under the pillow, looking for the small sachet of pipe-weed he had stashed there earlier… 

_It was gone._

_How coul-_

“Oh, for Eru’s sake!” Aragorn groaned, squishing the urge to hurl the pipe at the nearest wall. _The Hobbits._ Of course they had taken it! They had done that a few times during their quest, why would they stop now that he was a king? It must have happened somewhere during their brief visit, and now Aragorn understood their readiness to jump on his bed and lure him into talking. 

Feeling grumpier by the minute, Aragorn stared at the door to his bedchambers. _He could go to them. He could go and join them, spend some time with his friends, with Faramir, maybe stop any attempts at flirting between him and the fair Lady of Rohan? Or just inquire about new treaties, about trade and the borders? And ask the Hobbits to give him back his pipe-weed?_  

 

-&-

 

Three hours of the feast had already passed, and Faramir was slowly feeling the effects of the wine they had been drinking since the very start of the evening. His head was not swimming yet, but there was that pleasant buzz in his body, and he was feeling a bit too warm in his ornate robes. He shook his head minutely when Legolas proposed a refill of his cup, choosing instead to drink some juice. With a shrug and a small smile, the Elf poured himself some wine and placed the jug back on the table. He turned to Faramir, his mouth opening to tell him something - probably another curious tale concerning the magical tree they had encountered in the middle of the Ithilien forest - when his eyes widened. The steward jerked his head around, his own mouth opening in a silent gasp when he spotted what Legolas had been looking at. 

King Elessar was standing in the doorway. 

Well, _standing_ was surely an overstatement - he was leaning on it with his left hand clutching the door frame tightly, knuckles going white, the arm shaking. He was dressed in a casual set of black tunic and black trousers, his hair in disarray and the crown nowhere to be seen. 

On instinct, Faramir rose and crossed the expanse of the stone floor between them, reaching out to help his king with moving forward.  
“My lord, you should have called for me!” He admonished in a whisper, not wanting the others to overhear his words. Aragorn grinned at him, that edgy grin that spoke volumes of just how much pain he was in now.  
“And drag you away from this fine feast here? I could not do such a thing!”  
“You are the most stubborn ruler I have ever met, and let me remind you that I work at your council and have been present at all the treaty-signings,” Faramir muttered, helping Aragorn in getting to his rightful spot at the head of the table. 

Once there, Elessar lowered himself heavily onto it, resting against the back of it and tilting his head with a wince clear on his handsome features. Faramir ground his teeth so hard he thought he would break them.  
“You should have called me, Sire,” he repeated again, quietly, hoping the king would not try to go it alone at the end of the feast at least. Aragorn chuckled, peeling his eyes open and gazing at him.  
“And you should stop drinking if you cannot remember my name, my dear steward,” he murmured in a whisper. “I am terribly sorry I could not be here earlier,” he said out loud, clearly addressing the rest of the guests.  
“It is alright, Aragorn, we understand that your condition is serious,” Legolas assured him, nodding then grabbing the jug again to fill Aragorn’s cup. 

Faramir kept glancing at his king, taking in the paleness of his skin and the thin sheen of sweat that was covering it. The path here had clearly exhausted Aragorn, not to mention the protests his leg must have given him. Shaking his head incredulously, the steward went back to eating, hoping the king would stop being so stubborn. 

“Ay, Pippin!” Aragorn said suddenly, making both Hobbits turn their heads to him.  
“Yeah?”  
“Say, would you not know what has happened to my pipe-weed?” Aragorn asked, a smirk quirking up the corners of his lips. Pippin’s eyes widened slightly, before he pierced a piece of deer with his fork and hurriedly stuffed it into his mouth.  
“Mo, wa wu I mo da?” He asked, mumbling the words around the food he was chewing on. Merry jabbed him with a well placed elbow, making him cough and swallow the deer hastily. “Ow!”  
“Don’t ya _ow_ me! I told you it was a bad idea! Give Aragorn his weed back!” Merry berated him, staring at him expectantly. Aragorn grinned. 

Looking as if he was concentrating hard, Pippin finally sighed, sliding one hand under the table and retrieving a small sachet. He gave it to Legolas, who gave it to Faramir. The steward looked at it, shrugged, then turned to the side to hand it over to Aragorn… Just to meet Aragorn’s fiery gaze fixed firmly upon him. Feeling himself blush slightly, he gave him the sachet, quickly grabbing his cup and downing it in few rushed gulps. He reached out to Legolas, who seemed to be in charge of the wine jug, silently asking for a refill. When he turned back and risked a glance at his king, Aragorn was busy filling his pipe. 

The conversations continued after that, and for half an hour, Aragorn was not very talkative. He inquired about the wood trade and transport between Minas Tirith and Ithilien, then nodded along when Gimli started to describe the unexpected beauty he had found in the forests there. It seemed that he was staying near Ephel Dúath for the time being, entertaining the mining possibilities there. 

“Ay, Aragorn!” Legolas spoke, catching the king’s attention. Aragorn inclined his head, bidding him to speak. “I may be restoring the forests of Ithilien, but that fiefdom will need someone to rule it!” He said, looking expectantly at the king. Aragorn nodded in agreement. He knew that the Elf planned on traveling with Gimli as soon as the most crucial part of the restoration was over, and the last time his friend had gone on a trip, it had lasted three _years._ They could not leave Ithilien without anyone keeping an eye on it, certainly not for that long.  
“I have thought about it,” Aragorn started, glancing at Faramir, before he looked at Legolas again.  
“Oh!” Legolas’ beaming smile was brighter than the chandeliers hanging above their heads. 

“Thought about what?” Faramir frowned, catching the end of the conversation, no doubt feeling the Elf’s eyes on him.  
“About _you,”_ Aragorn said, looking at him. “I want to offer you the title of the Prince of Ithilien, if you would make me the great honor of taking it.” 

Suddenly, there was silence around them, the whole table falling quiet, except for the distinctive sounds of the Hobbits munching on something. Elessar was looking at him expectantly, and all Faramir could do was stare back, confused.  
“Why me?” He asked, his eyebrows raising high. “There are people far better suited for this role than me…” He tried to explain, waiting for an explanation himself. Aragorn shook his head softly.  
“There is no-one better in this realm or, indeed, in the whole of Arda. You are wise and far more well-versed in the history of Ithilien than I am. Besides, you have roamed those lands as a ranger, you know them already,” Aragorn went on, not pausing even for a moment. “You can move there if you so wish, or you can stay here and appoint someone to keep an eye on it for you, while you visit a few times a month. Ithilien lies but a few hours’ ride from Minas Tirith, that should not be a problem. I really cannot see anyone better-suited for this role than you, Faramir,” he finished, his eyes boring into the steward. 

Faramir cast his eyes down for a moment, trying to compose himself. He was not sure what he should think. He loved Ithilien, more than he had loved the White City while growing up, but recently there had been a very perspective-changing addition to the city that made it worth it to put up with the demons from the past. But, as Aragorn had said, he could choose someone from his old company to keep everything in order, while he visited. Maybe he could even make a few trips with Aragorn himself and show his king the beauty of the wild forests and the grass greener than on the Pelennor Fields… 

Taking a deep breath, Faramir looked up, finding Aragorn still watching him expectantly. He smiled.  
“Alright, I accept,” he said, bowing slightly. Hearing that, Elessar gave him a most brilliant smile, then raised his cup in toast. The others followed, congratulating him with warm words and a few claps to the back.  
“Finally some good news for this realm!” Éomer cried, gulping down his wine. “And speaking of good news… I think Éowyn has something to announce!” He said, turning to her. The Lady of Rohan smiled sweetly, then glanced around the table.  
“It is true, a great happiness had befallen me. I will be getting married by the end of the year!” 

Immediately, excited cries and wishes sounded around the table, with the exception of Aragorn, who was the only one who did not seem overly optimistic.  
“That is excellent news, my lady!” Gimli exclaimed, raising his cup in a happy salute. She bowed her head, grinning at him happily. “May we ask as to the name of that happy lad? Is he a knight? A king?” The Dwarf asked, wiggling his bushy eyebrows. Éowyn giggled, her shoulders shaking with laughter.  
“By no means! He is just a ranger from Ithilien, one of the noblest men I have had the pleasure to meet,” she answered, taking a sip from her cup. Legolas frowned.  
“How did you two meet?” The Elf asked, curious. Éowyn cast a glance towards Faramir before she spoke.  
“In the House of Healing, of all places. We were both injured with Faramir, and we have stumbled upon each other on one evening...”  
“It was I who have stumbled, to be completely honest,” Faramir added, mirth evident in his voice.  
“Oh yes, I wanted to spare you the embarrassing details, _my lord,”_ she said, laughing. “The night was very young, so we went for a walk into one of the gardens…”

Abruptly, Aragorn rose, stopping whatever she wanted to say. He had stood up too quickly and had to grip the edge of the table for support, his teeth grinding, before he spoke.  
“My lady, I hope you will be very happy with the prince,” he muttered, only loud enough to reach Éowyn’s ears, then turned around angrily and strode out, swaying with every step. Faramir was so shocked at the mix of anger and disappointment he had seen on Elessars face, that he did not follow him immediately.

“What’s wrong with him?” Pippin asked, staring after their friend with his mouth open. Gandalf chuckled, and so did Legolas.  
“That, my Shire friend, was love,” the Elf explained, sounding way too mysterious to Pippin’s liking. The Hobbit shrugged, then went back to his dessert. 

It took Faramir a few moments to shake off the shock at Aragorn’s behavior. And then, the king’s words replied themselves in his mind and the confusion only became greater. _I hope you will be very happy with the prince…_ What _prince?_ Utterly lost, Faramir turned his head to Legolas, finding the elf smirking mischievously.  
“Can you explain to me what has just happened?” The steward asked, seeing the amused glint in Legolas’ eyes.  
“Oh, it is easy, I believe you can find out on your own soon enough.”  
“But…” Faramir started, then trailed off. Gandalf chuckled quietly.  
“Go after him, Faramir. I believe our good king had walked himself into a misunderstanding that is making him utterly miserable right now,” the wizard said, shaking his head disapprovingly, but there was no bite to his voice, only fondness. 

His frown deepening, Faramir finally rose and went after Aragorn, hoping he would not have to pick him off the floor in case his leg decided not to cooperate. He needed answers and he needed them now. 

 

-&-

 

  
Under normal circumstances, Faramir would have knocked on the door and waited for permission to enter. 

_These were not normal circumstances._

And he was angry. Not furious - not that - but definitely angry with the way Aragorn had acted in the great hall. This was the time for answers, no matter the late hour, no matter Aragorn’s condition, and no matter _the protocol._ And so, Faramir strode through the corridors, surprised that the king had managed to walk all the distance back to his bedchambers on his own. They were not far, granted, but it must have cost him a lot to do that. 

Ignoring everything that he had learned, ignoring his own senses screaming at him to wait, to be proper, the steward paused in front of his king’s door just for long enough to grab the door handle and twist it open. He marched in, his eyes finding Aragorn immediately - a figure sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, one hand covering his face. Frowning, Faramir let the door fall shut behind him, the sound of it unexpectedly loud in the quiet room. 

Aragorn startled, almost jumping in place, wide eyes shooting to meet his steward’s gaze, before he turned his head away, looking down. That brief glimpse was not enough to see any details, not in the dimness of the interior - there was only a solitary candle shining in the big room, a bit of moonlight falling in from the windows. Faramir’s frown deepened as he stepped forward. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he expected to be thrown out. His father would certainly have done that. 

Swallowing heavily, knowing that he was violating all rules held by the oversized tomes in the library, Faramir took another step and finally asked what had been on his mind.  
_“That_ was not nice, my lord. Why would you treat your guest in such a way?” He wanted to know what was wrong with the man. News of engagement usually begged for a happy celebration, not for a few muttered words and an untimely exit of one’s _king._  

Aragorn remained silent for a long time - so long, in fact, that Faramir started to wonder whether the king had even heard him. He was ready to rephrase the question, or just plainly state it again, when Aragorn finally decided to speak.  
“Why are you here?” He asked instead, the words but a quiet murmur. Faramir stared at him in the half-darkness, confused. He had never heard Elessar sound so beaten up. For a moment, the steward was afraid that the solitary trip back to his lodgings had been too much for their king, and his insides squeezed with worry. 

“Are you alright? Your leg, I mean?” He asked, waiting for some kind of confirmation. When it came - in a form of a small nod - Faramir breathed out in relief. “Good. Now tell me, what had you been thinking, sulking away like you had? It is unbecoming!”  
“Faramir, I beg of you, leave me be,” Aragorn said, his voice low still. “Go and spend time with your lady…”  
_“Leave_ you be? Have you lost your mind, Aragorn? You can barel-” And then the rest of his king’s sentence filtered into his mind, stopping all his thoughts. _“My_ lady? _What_ lady?” He asked, incredulous. Surely Aragorn…  
“Éowyn, or must I remind you _her_ name also?” The bitterness he could hear almost knocked Faramir off his feet. He took another step forward, bringing himself within reach of Elessar, who remained seated, hunched over, still staring at the floor at his feet.  
“Of what do you speak?” Faramir asked. 

There was a minute shrug, almost invisible had it not been for the steward’s keen eyes. It shifted the shadows and let the meager candlelight play across Aragorn’s features, and for the first time since he had walked in here, Faramir was able to see his face. 

His king was crying. 

“My lord…”  
“No.” And with that, Aragorn heaved himself up, turning abruptly to his steward, leaning to the side and bracing one arm against the nearest wall for support. Faramir’s arms rose up, a silent answer for the unvoiced cry for help, but Aragorn’s gaze focused on him and the chill of it paused all of Faramir’s movements.  
“Aragorn?”  
“Go back to your future wife, Faramir. You do not need to concern yourself with this old man,” he spat the words as if they were venom on his tongue. 

If Faramir was to pinpoint the exact way people had epiphanies, he would have been able to describe it in details there and then. All the dots connected, all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place before his very eyes and, to his own utter horror, a very wary laughter bubbled up in his throat. The realization was so swift, Faramir felt dizzy for a moment, standing there in the darkened room, facing his king. 

Aragorn was not losing his mind, was not losing himself… he was _jealous._ He was jealous and angry that Éowyn could have a chance with Faramir… Oh, Valar, if he only knew just how untrue that statement was! 

Temporarily confused by the incredulous laughter, Aragorn paused, staring at his steward with his mouth open. The desolation on his usually so peaceful features was almost comical, and Faramir could not help himself. He stepped forward and, heedless of protocols, grabbed two fistfuls of his king’s robes and marched him backwards, pressing him into the wall.  
“Faramir!” Aragorn cried, his voice tinged with a note of panic - why, the steward had no idea. He leaned in and pressed his lips to Aragorn’s, locking them together in a slow but meaningful kiss. 

Aragorn’s body went rigid, his left hand trapped somewhere between them, neither drawing Faramir closer nor pushing him away. His right arm - still bandaged to his chest - shook under the cover of his tunic, the muscles flexing and spasming, almost as if he was trying to unconsciously free the injured limb. Faramir did not let up for a moment, shifting his stance, changing the angle a bit and raising one hand to Aragorn’s cheek. He skimmed his fingers over the delicate skin, over the rustling stubble, his tongue darting out to lick along the seam of Aragorn’s lips. 

He drew away only when he was sure that the fight had left his king, when Aragorn went pliant against him.  
“I do not understand,” the king mumbled, the words but a whisper in the dark. Faramir smirked, leaning in again for a quick peck, before leaning back, hands still holding on to Aragorn’s tunic.  
_“You great oaf,”_ Faramir breathed out, his earlier anger nowhere to be seen. “Éowyn is _not_ going to marry _me.”_  
“But-”  
“No, be quiet. I am talking now,” the steward silenced him hurriedly, lest Aragorn come to the wrong conclusion again. “We have met in the House of Healing. We went for a walk in the gardens, where we encountered Damrod. He is one of my trusted men, and a noble one, indeed. He had fallen in love with Éowyn instantly and I had been trapped arranging meetings for them for the first month after your coronation. This is why I have spent so much time with her,” he explained, pausing to let the knowledge seep into Aragorn. 

The king was silent for a long time, blinking up at Faramir, almost in a daze.  
“So…” Aragorn cleared his throat. “You and her…”  
“We are just good friends, and there is naught more to that,” Faramir confirmed with a reassuring smile.  
“I thought…”  
“I know.”  
“But… me?” The king asked, his voice getting smaller. Faramir shook his head.  
“For Eru’s sake, Aragorn! I thought you were losing your mind!” He stomped down the urge to shake some sense into his liege. “Your distaste for being trapped in bed for days I could understand, but all your playfulness was gone! I sat here, seeing you waste away, seeing that melancholy you have fallen into, and I did not know what to do! And today, after you have made your exit in that manner…”  
“I am sorry.” Aragorn looked away, his throat working furiously. Faramir would have none of that. 

Reaching up, he cradled Aragorn’s jaw gently and turned his head back forward.  
“I love you, my king,” he whispered, diving forward to kiss him again. Aragorn responded with a relieved sigh, falling into his steward's arms, finally allowing himself to kiss him back with the full force of the emotions that had been swirling inside him for quite some time now. 

They stumbled blindly to the bed, their fall cushioned by soft pillows and, before any of them really knew what was happening, Aragorn was pushed on his back with Faramir leaning over him, their clothes disposed of, Faramir’s very capable hand wrapped around the both of them. 

It did not last long - such unions never do. It was abrupt and quick, barely enough to satisfy them both. The kisses that followed, interrupted by erratic breathing and shaking limbs, were sweet with the promise of tomorrow. When sleep claimed them, brought by the silver light of Ithil seeping into the room, it was hard to distinguish one from another, so tangled together they were. 

 

-&-

 

The morning brought rain pounding against the windows, fueled by wayward winds that seemed bent on getting inside the citadel. 

Faramir sighed, stretching, opening his eyes blearily in the gloomy light - only to meet Aragorn’s gaze. The king was propped up on pillows, lying next to him and watching him calmly, a small smile present on his lip.  
“Good morning,” the steward murmured, turning to his side to face the man. Aragorn’s smile widened, eyes shining happily. 

They were both still undressed, covered in nothing but the heavy fur and the bandage still wrapped around Aragorn’s chest and arm. Faramir let his gaze wander over the expanse of the white linen clinging to his skin, taking in the bruising peeking out from beneath. Suddenly, he felt guilty about the way he had pushed Aragorn against the wall the night before.  
“What troubles you?” The king was quick to ask, no doubt seeing the worry crossing his features.  
“I should not have…” Faramir trailed off, reaching out and running his fingers delicately over the bandage. Aragorn grabbed his hand hastily, bringing it up and kissing it softly.  
“You most certainly _should_ have,” he replied, the smile never fading from his mouth. “I was a fool, I needed someone to open my eyes.”  
“You are no fool, Aragorn,” the steward retorted, shaking his head minutely. “Like Mithrandir said, it was a misunderstanding.”  
“Mithrandir, huh?” Aragorn asked, trying no to roll his eyes. “Had everyone in this realm known before I did?”  
“Thank Valar they did!” Faramir grinned, leaning in for a kiss. 

It was soft, delicate in its tenderness, and when Aragorn inclined his head to deepen it, Faramir could feel himself melting. The scrape of the stubble against his cheek was not a novelty, but the knowledge that it was his king, that it was _Aragorn,_ whom he loved deeply, settled heavy and warm in his body. Once they parted, there was a very satisfied look painted across Aragorn’s features, the view of him so dreamy, the steward could happily stay in this bed with him for the rest of his days. 

And that thought brought questions with it, questions that were not fit for such a happy morning together… questions that required answers nevertheless.  
“What do you intend this to become?” Faramir asked quietly, knowing he did not need to clarify what he meant. Aragorn licked his lips, looking down briefly before answering.  
“Whatever you wish it to be. Faramir, I would be lying if I said I had not imagined us together like this. I have dreamed of you, even when I thought you lost to Éowyn…” the king sighed, moving closer, wrapping his uninjured arm around the younger man. “We could rule Gondor together… We are already ruling it together, as a matter of fact. I could make it official…”  
“You could not,” Faramir’s eyes widened. _Official? That could end in a scandal!_

“My dear steward, am I to remind you now not about my name, but about my title?” Aragorn asked, amused. “Very well, then. I am, in fact, the king of this realm. I am very nearly sure I can do whatever I want.”  
“But… but the history of Gondor had not seen any such a union up to date!” Faramir answered in horror, raking his mind for memories of the old books’ knowledge. Aragorn chuckled.  
“Maybe it is time to write a new page of its history? I would not force you in any way, of course, but you would make me a great pleasure if you agreed to what I propose.” 

Faramir stared silently ahead, Aragorn’s hand scribbling nonsense patterns into his upper arm. _Official? Could they, really? Was it as easy as Aragorn thought it was? But… all the kings were accompanied by a queen… They had sons and daughters, ruled the country for countless years…_  
“What about heirs?” Faramir asked on a whisper. Aragorn shrugged, as much as he was able to.  
“When that issue arises, I am sure we can work something out. There are ways of providing heirs that are known and used in different countries,” he answered carefully. Faramir let that sink in, warmth spreading through him slowly.  
“And you would want me? Just a steward, from a family that has a long history of the sickness in their heads?” Faramir asked warily, needing to be completely clear about their arrangements. 

With another sigh, Aragorn leaned back as much as he was able to, still keeping his left arm more or less around Faramir.  
“Your family is not _you,_ dear heart. The question is, would you want a king who has no idea how to rule a country and is incapable of wielding a sword?” He asked back, raising his eyebrows questioningly.  
“You say you do not know how to rule a country, and yet you are doing it splendidly. As for your arm,” Faramir brushed his fingers across the bandage tenderly, “I do believe it is only a matter of time. You will heal soon. Besides, Mithrandir is here to help you. We have spoken about it yesterday, shortly before you arrived. He said that his time here is ending and that he will sail away with the remaining Elves. Before he does so, he wants to be of help here, if you would be ready to receive it.”  
“Still,” Aragorn mused, somehow sounding melancholic and dreamy all at the same time. “Would you not be happier with a warrior lady at your side? Someone to provide you with a real family?” 

The worry in his king’s voice unnerved Faramir. He unentangled himself and propped himself on one elbow, leaning over Aragorn to ensure he had his full attention.  
“My lord, it may be one of my secrets, but I want you to know its entirety. I have never looked upon any woman with lust in my heart. Éowyn is just a friend, for I could not bed her in any manner, nor would I any other woman. They never interested me in a way other than friendly,” he explained, feeling himself blush under his king’s gaze. Aragorn frowned, before his eyes widened.  
“Rangers of Ithilien?”  
“Indeed,” Faramir confirmed with a smirk, diving down for a kiss. 

They were late for breakfast, but nobody seemed to hold it against them when they finally arrived at the great hall. And if the only thing left on the table by then was the dessert, they could not complain, either - it matched the sweetness they felt inside perfectly. 

 

-&-

 

It was five months later when Aragorn took up his sword practice again. The days were warm and the sun illuminating the gardens provided a great environment for a few solo drills. He was busy reminding his body how to make a diagonal cut with a longsword, when a familiar voice reached him.  
“Do not overtask yourself, we still have a council meeting to attend to later,” Faramir said amused, making Aragorn swirl around, Andúril held firmly in his grasp. 

There he was, the Steward of Gondor, his hair longer now, adorned with a slender circlet glinting silvery in Anor’s light. Aragorn could not help but smile at the view - he had asked Gimli personally to make it, a curious mix between a diadem and a crown, denoting the second most important person in the whole realm - and the first most important person in Aragorn’s heart. His Dwarf friend had accepted the challenge readily and, in less than three weeks, a very blushing Faramir had been presented with precious mithril. Aragorn knew that for the first few weeks, his steward had worn it only because it pleased him. He had grown to like it, however, and a few nights spent wearing only their regal decorations might have something to do with that. 

“I am fine, dear heart. I believe I will be ready for sparring, soon,” Aragorn was quick to soothe the worry in Faramir’s eyes, lowering his sword and coming closer to steal a kiss.  
“That is good, those wayward orc bands are getting more common,” Faramir muttered, and Aragorn raised his eyebrows at him, surprised.  
“Oh, I thought you did not want me on the battlefield anymore!”  
“Correct, I do _not_ want you fighting again… but if there is no other way, I know you will lead our people.” The words he spoke were calm, acceptance seeping into every syllable, and Aragorn was shocked to hear it.  
“What changed?” He asked, curious, sliding Andúril back into the scabbard.  
“You are back to being happy. I like you better like this,” Faramir explained, waving his hand around, indicating Aragorn’s whole being. The king smiled, placing his sword on the green grass under their feet, then wrapping his arms around his steward. 

The kiss that followed was one of gratitude, and Faramir had to break it off before they caused a mild scandal.  
“Must I remind you that the maids are far too talkative?” He asked, flushed. “Besides, we have a council we need to get to.”  
“Right you are, my dear. Let us get cleaned up, then!” And with a mischievous glint in his eyes, Aragorn dragged Faramir into the citadel, fully intent on taking a bath with his steward. 

In the garden, Idris got up from one of the benches and walked forward, bending to pick Andúril from the ground. She smiled, following the two back to the castle. It was not the first time she had to pick things up after them but, like the rest of the staff, she did not mind. Their king was happy and Lord Steward had finally found love he deserved. If it meant returning their swords and random items of clothing back to their chambers, so be it.  


End file.
